


In the night your heart is full, and by the morning empty

by sunflashes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-23
Updated: 2012-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:55:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflashes/pseuds/sunflashes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had said <i>wrong day to die</i>, and at the mercy of his sharp hipbones and wicked teeth, Sherlock was glad it had been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the night your heart is full, and by the morning empty

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from _Radioactive_ by Marina and the Diamonds.

Sherlock's finger is _radioactive hot_ on the trigger. He will not hesitate, and they will all blossom and burst into shrapnel, and it will solve this. Granted, it is rather messier than he would have liked, and not at all a fitting departure for The World's Only Consulting Detective, but one must make the best of limited resources. And considering the sheer amount of red sniper's dots floating tauntingly in and out of his eyesight, over John's chest, even Sherlock has to concede that this is the only way to do what is necessary: neutralize Moriarty. 

Sacrifice is sometimes necessitated. Sherlock steels himself, drawing breath into deep recesses in his lungs, calculatingly calm, and, utterly improbable as it is, he hears the Bee Gees. 

\---

He had said _wrong day to die_ , and at the mercy of his sharp hipbones and wicked teeth, Sherlock was glad it had been. 

\---

And the packages, the plain brown-wrapped packages with the glass bottles and the mouse, pigeon, cat hearts, they started coming when Irene came in through Sherlock's window and fell asleep, all long hair and damsel-in-distress in Sherlock's bed.

He didn't like that, not oooooooooooooooooone bit, he whispers into Sherlock's ear in the king-sized bed of some bureaucrat's all-but-unused apartment, he had spirited Sherlock away from Baker Street and told him in his honeyed voice how very darling he looks in nothing but bedsheets. 

She is uuuuuuuusing youuuuuuuu, he singsongs, and how do you know that, accusatory and perturbed, and because I hired her to do so now _come back to bed, baby_.

"I am going to- going- to st-stop you-!" Sherlock pants, neck tendons stretching in a medically appealing way, head thrown back, eyes dilated, dilated, dilated.

"Nooooo you wooon't." Jim _mimics himself_ from where his teeth are scraping down Sherlock's stomach. There is, there is something really perverse about it, and Sherlock tries to dig grips into his precise brain function but Jim is giving him something he has never, never touched, never tasted, never, his legs are trembling, he is tumbling, pale-taut and deeply ragged, towards that rush, a chemical crescendo, a symphony of synapse. He is so near the edge of this roaring waterfall and Jim laughs, low in his throat, dark and dirty, and Sherlock's eyes snap wide open, his breathing stops, hitches, for a dramatic, stark moment, and he is awash in pleasure.

\---

A human heart sits soaking its stain into the front steps at 221b, and Sherlock's hands, usually precise and steady, they _tremble._


End file.
